The Shift In The Wind
by MechanicalFriend
Summary: John Watson ever asked for much. He was usually happy with what he's got. He tolerated people, mostly Sherlock. But when he saw his best friend plunge to his death, he decided to ask for the most unlikely thing possible: A miracle. But they don't exist, do they? ((Johnlock at some point))
1. Silence

"_The grief within me has its own heartbeat. It has its own life, its own song. Part of me wants to resist the rhythms of my grief, yet as I surrender to the song, I learn to listen deep within myself" ~ Alan Wolfelt _

"_Good bye John."_

My eyes shot open; the darkness greeting me.

God, the darkness.

The only thing that did greet me these days. Besides Mrs. Hudson who came to check on me, everyday exactly on 11am, for three years straight. She thinks I'll do something stupid or reckless.

Everyone has been treating me like a porcelain doll, trying not to slip and break me. They don't want to shatter what's already left of John Watson.

I gave deep and shallow breaths, squeezing my eyes shut. I'll do the usual routine: try and erase the image of Sh-... him.

The ache has come back, the feeling in my heart that feels like someone has pushed their hand through my ribcage, slowly and tenderly taking my heart, and then crushing it in one, swift squeeze.

I gave another deep breath and opened my eyes slowly, looking around.

My room had deteriorated into something else. You wouldn't of guessed I inhabited this place by the level of untidiness. The routine was just throw whatever was in my hand to the floor and collapse on the bed.

I decided that I wouldn't be sleeping again so I pulled myself up into a sitting position, my eyes still roaming my room. I didn't really know why I was doing it.

Looking for a sign maybe...

An answer.

That's what I've been doing since that day he jumped.

I shook my head and ran a hand through my hair. Another deep breath.

I stood and pulled out my usual clothing, clumsily stumbling as I pulled on my jeans. This was part of my usual routine, which I did everyday, every month, every year. And no one stopped me.

I sat and drank my coffee in silence, taking only a small bite out of my apple.

Another flashback: Sherlock trying to learn to juggle after I had half heartedly suggested it; just to quit him whining. We didn't have any circular objects, so the poor apples got a terrible beating. He had spent all day trying to juggle with apples, only resulting in me emptying all the valuables in a radiance of Sherlock and his apples.

And as I look at the exact corner he was in, it's like I can almost see him. His eyebrows pulled together in concentration as he stumbled along the instructions.

And then the clear, vivid image faded away, leaving me staring at an empty and dusty corner. The choking feeling returned and to save me the pain, I looked away and left the apple to rot on the table. I stood and walked to the coat rack, hesitating as I reached for my brown coat. The space that Sherlock used to fling his coat was empty, dusty and bare. I swallowed and took my coat, pulling it on as I walked out the room without a second glance.

The cab had finally pulled up to the cemetery, relieving me of the stress of being in the silence. I stepped out and walked across the gravel, my feet hitting it nosily. I watched my feet as I walked, keeping my eyes down. I didn't want to look up and see other peoples' graves, I didn't want to see other peoples' grief. I have my own grief to deal with, and that was already enough.

I finally got to his grave and felt my heart seize, then contract. Then seize.

The black polish glistened at me, the stone still new and tidy.

It reflected an image to me; a broken and lonely man. This man was tired, emotionally and physically and he looked on the verge of breaking. This man had been on the verge of breaking since his best friend had died. But the man was strong, and he kept his head down and his tears dormant. He knew crying wouldn't bring back his friend, so he had to soldier on, like he did before. He had the right attitude in the end. Sentiment undo people.

I sighed and shifted my weight, shoving my hands in my pocket. I let my eyes follow the engraving, the words reflecting cruelly. I felt my throat choke and I looked away. Too long had I spent here; just staring. Staring won't bring him home. Staring won't undo time.

But God, I wish it did.

I wish to the end of the universe and back just to bring him back. I just..._wish... _someone would listen to my pleas.

But of course, miracles don't exist.

_Hey guys :) Thanks for taking time out to read my story :D_

_I am forever grateful. Please leave a comment and tell me what you think! _

_Love you to the stars and back!_


	2. Contemplations

"_You will lose someone you can't live without,and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn't seal back up. And you come through. It's like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp." - Anne Lamott _

"John? Are you _even _listening to me?"

I blinked and turned to my pissed off sister. "Wha- Yeah. Of course."

She narrowed her eyes and leaned forward on her elbows. "What did I say then?"

Damn.

"You, um... Something about Mrs. Next door dying?" I said sheepishly.

"I said mum misses you."

"Oh." I said, frowning slightly.

Harry gave a loud groan and leaned back in her chair, surveying me. I shifted uncomfortably under her piercing glare and gave a small smile.

"You've lost weight." she accused suddenly. I blinked.

When was the last time you slept?"

I gave a sigh and rubbed my face with my hands. "I don't know, okay?"

"John, you can't keep doing this to yourself. You'll turn into him if you keep missing meals and sleep, it's not healthy." she sighed, staring at me sadly.

I felt my heart and throat constrict. I was ending up like him. I can't remember the last time I had slept, or a proper sleep anyway. I only manage about five hours a week.

And for the eating, food just doesn't seem appetising any more. I'll eat when I have to, but that's it.

I swear I'm losing my mind.

"John? you're doing it again!"

I sighed and focused back onto Harry. "Sorry."

Harry sighed and leaned forward again. "Listen, I know this hit you hard. He was close to you, but it's time to move on. John, it has been three years. _Three years. _You have to move on."

I swallowed. He was more than just close to me. He was my one and only best friend. He had the ability to make me smile when I felt like utter shit. He pissed me off, but never really meant to. He had filled my lonely and boring life with heads in fridges' and up to five o'clock rummaging through boxes and boxes of books to find some code. He changed everything. I was never bored. But I was never grateful for what he gave me. God, if I bring it all back now, I would let him store as many heads in the fridge.

But I have to move on. I couldn't just sit around and mope, waiting for the question that couldn't be answered. Too many nights I have waited for him to walk in, his cheeks slightly coloured because he had to run for the cab. But the doorway was empty, dust falling off it slightly.

"Listen, I must dash. It's been nice to see you John, it really has." Harry smiled, rising from the table. I nodded and smiled as she left.

Once again, alone.

I looked around, trying not to meet anyone's eye. I only remember walking in to Mrs. Hudson's café with Harry, sitting down and having small, awkward talk with my younger sister. I guess it was nice to see her.

"John?"

I frowned and kept my head down, taking a sip from mug. It was probably another John, they wouldn't want to talk to the broken and lonely John from 221b.

"John Watson?"

Oh... It appears they do.

I turned and frowned, looking for the source of noise.

A man, about mid forties came towards me with a big grin. I think I've seen him from somewhere.

"John? How are you fella?" he beamed, sitting across from me.

Oh God, it was him.

"Do you remember me? You patched me up when I was shot. Gary Jones?" the man smiled, seeming to think I'd jump up and hug the man.

"Oh yes. How are you?" I asked, forcing a smile.

"I'm good! The wife just had a baby!" he beamed. Once again, another forced smile.

"So, why are you home?" he asked.

"I got shot." I grimaced, my shoulder twitching. He frowned and gave me a sympathetic smile.

"I'm sorry. Have you thought about going back?"

I frowned. "What... back into the army?"

Gary nodded. "When I got shot, after a few years, they let me. You don't go out and fight, but you stay and help out. They sure do need another doctor John."

I frowned again and stared at the coffee stained napkin. Would I want to go back?

"Got to go sorry, the wife needs baby supplies, see you around." Gary grinned, patting my shoulder as he walked away.

I sighed and stood as well, taking my leave.

Would going back abroad help me forget about... Sherlock?

It defiantly will, having my mind on something else will push him further to the back of my mind. Maybe then I can start over... or let it finish.

What if I didn't come back?

Well I have nothing to come back for.


End file.
